The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  When Frankel and Grant stepped inside shortly after eight, Rachel was one of only five diners. She was halfway through a glass of chardonnay and the cops didn’t need any convincing to get drinks of their own.

  “It’s been that kind of day,” Frankel said, taking a seat.

  That kind of month, thought Grant. He sat down on his daughter’s other side, then glanced at his watch and the date in the Tag’s little window.

  The nineteenth.

  Only twelve more days and I’m retired.

  By the time their drinks arrived (a Heineken for Frankel and a scotch and soda for Grant), they’d told Rachel about their trip to Far Rockaway. Frankel pulled out his iPhone and showed her a picture of the newspaper he’d snapped.

  Rachel stared at Grant’s marked-up face. She turned to her father, her eyes filled with clear concern. “Oh, my God. What are you two doing about this?”

  “Not letting it hit the papers, that’s for sure,” replied Frankel.

  Grant could see his daughter stiffen. “If either of you think I’d . . .”

  Grant held up a hand. “No one’s accusing you of anything, Rachel.”

  “Sorry. That didn’t come out right,” said Frankel. “I know you put your neck on the line for us today after the press conference. Particularly for your father.”

  “I keep telling you both that I just want to help.”

  “Which is one of the reasons we’re here,” Grant said. “Besides me getting the opportunity to share another meal with my Americanized daughter.”

  “C’mon, I ain’t changed that much,” she said with a smile while putting on a Queens accent.

  Grant laughed for maybe the first time since arriving in the States. “Why don’t you suggest what to order and then we can tell you the rest?”

  Rachel insisted they have both the basil and garlic flatbreads and a margherita pizza. She chose a couple of pastas that they could share from the daily printed menu and the waiter left to put in the order.

  A second round of drinks arrived right around the time Grant finished telling Rachel about his discussion with Sergeant Hawley at the Yard and how she might be able to help them.

  “Your father reminded me that he spent years going over his cases with you,” Frankel told her.

  “Since I was a child,” Rachel said. “I used to find crime scene photos and evidence bags he’d brought home and they fascinated me. I had tons of questions and Dad was more than happy to answer all of them.”

  “Naturally, it horrified her mother. But I kept telling Allison that curiosity was something that needed to be encouraged, not stomped on, in a child.”

  “Mom completely gave up on us both after I asked Dad to bring specimens from the lab back home and she found them in the fridge.”

  “I only did that twice,” Grant insisted.

  “That’s because I made him take me with him to work on the weekends,” Rachel explained. “I got to see plenty of good stuff there.”

  “I see how you ended up becoming a journalist,” Frankel observed.

  Grant went on to explain how they’d decided it was best to keep a possible connection between the killer and himself out of the papers until they knew more.

  “I thought once Hawley had compiled his list, you two could go over it. If someone is really acting out a grudge, it has to be one of those old cases. Between what you remember about them and making a few quiet inquiries saying you’re doing a feature piece on your dear old dad, it might help narrow the field.”

  Rachel nodded. “I’d say anything is worth trying at this point.”

  “You must promise me that you won’t approach any of these people directly,” Grant said. “That’s to be left to Hawley and the others at the Yard.”

  “Or if someone happens to be here in New York—me or your father will deal with it,” added Frankel.

  “Quiet inquiries. Feature piece on my dad,” Rachel recited. “Got it.”

  The waiter chose that time to return with the flatbeds and pizza. He had no sooner left the table when Rachel turned to look back at her father.

  “So, when do I start?”

  Grant got a text from Hawley shortly before the entrees arrived saying he’d have a preliminary list by the time the sun rose on their side of the Atlantic. Grant was pleased, but not surprised, to see the man working into the wee hours of the London night. He gave Rachel the sergeant’s contact info and told her to check with him when she got up in the morning.

  Rachel got the two of them to trade war stories—their favorite NYPD and Yard tales—and by the time dessert came, they had gone through enough to fill quite the rogue’s gallery.

  They departed the restaurant shortly after ten-thirty. Though it was in the low forties, Rachel pointed out the evening was clear enough to walk the ten blocks to Grant’s hotel. Once there, she and Frankel could grab a couple of cabs or Ubers and head home themselves.

  But as it’s wont to do in a city where you look the other way and the weather changes, the skies opened up and the trio got caught in a torrential downpour six blocks from the London.

  Grant asked if they wanted to come in and dry off, but both said they would be fine. Rachel insisted that her father go inside before he caught his death of cold. The London doorman offered to find Rachel and Frankel taxis and Grant handed the man ten dollars for his trouble.

  Grant decided to risk giving his daughter a goodnight hug and was pleased when she didn’t pull away. He knew there was still plenty unresolved between the two of them, but at least it was a start. Grant told Frankel he would see him bright and early in the morning, then sloshed his way into the hotel.

  He was halfway to the elevator when the night manager called out.

  “Sir?”

  Grant caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror—he resembled a drowned rat. He could only imagine what kind of vagrant the man behind the desk thought had wandered into the hotel. Grant pointed to the elevator. “I’m on the fourth floor. Room 412? Grant?”

  The night manager nodded. “Of course, Mr. Grant. I know who you are.”

  Grant nodded and resumed his journey to the elevator. The night manager called out once again.

  “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow’s the twentieth.”

  “Yes.”

  It usually follows the nineteenth—even where I come from.

  Grant turned around. The only thing he wanted to do was soak in a hot tub.

  “So, you’ll be checking out as planned?”

  This stopped Grant in his wet tracks once again. “Checking out?”

  “I believe you were informed at check-in that we had no availability starting this weekend due to the Christmas holiday.”

  “I thought you were going to let me know if something freed up.”

  “I’m letting you know now that unfortunately nothing has.”

  Grant couldn’t tell if the man was enjoying this or not. He suspected the former.

  Half an hour later, Grant finally made it into the tub.

  Unfortunately, now he was on the portable phone with the night manager, who said he had checked with every hotel in the area but regretted to inform Grant that they were also fully committed through Christmas Eve.

  “But I do wish you the best of luck hunting down this maniac you’re looking for, Commander,” the night manager said before disconnecting.

  Grant stared at the phone for a moment.

  How much worse could this day possibly get?

  Grant suddenly realized he’d forgotten to bring the soap into the tub. He could see it on the other side of the bathroom lying next to the sink.

  13

  Grant’s stay at the London had been anything but ideal. But as he went to check out, he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of refuge he was going to find in the Big Bad City, already fondly recalling the four nights spent in a room where the only perk had been a different chocolate left by the bed each evening.

  The same woman who had registered him was be
hind the desk.

  “I hope you enjoyed your stay, Commander.” She produced a credit card slip.

  “I would’ve preferred it to be a little longer,” he said, scribbling his signature.

  She gave him a sympathetic smile that he figured she’d been taught during employee training. “Our busiest time of year, I’m afraid.”

  He knew it would be pointless to make another inquiry about extending his stay, certain he had other frustrating conversations ahead of him on this day.

  Like the one about to occur a dozen steps away—where Monte Ferguson sat in a wingback chair sipping coffee. The reporter had obviously chosen that spot as it was situated between the main entrance and elevators. Unless Grant used the fire escape, Ferguson knew he’d eventually have to pass him.

  “Buy you breakfast, Commander?” Ferguson asked.

  They ended up at the Astro Diner—the coffee shop Grant had gone to with Frankel on his first night in Manhattan. Grant knew he could avoid Ferguson for only so long. Might as well get a meal out of what was sure to be an uncomfortable chat. As they reached the coffee shop, Ferguson indicated Grant’s carry-on luggage.

  “Giving up the ghost already?”

  “No room at the inn, I’m afraid. That time of year,” Grant told the journalist, who still had enough good breeding to hold open the door.

  “Any idea where you’re moving to?”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure you’ll find me when I do.”

  They settled into a booth. Ever since the news conference, Grant had expected to be confronted by Ferguson. The man didn’t disappoint—they had been seated less than a minute when he asked Grant how long he’d known the killer was selecting victims according to the Book of Exodus. “You certainly did when you closed down all those churches.”

  “We suspected it then,” Grant admitted. “But it wasn’t until Father Peters’s murder that we knew for sure.”

  “And you still didn’t think it was worth sharing with the public?”

  “We were trying to get a handle on what we were dealing with. It didn’t make sense to send Londoners into an all-out panic when the killer had come over here. And there’s no telling he’ll stay put in America.”

  “So, you’re confirming it’s a man you’re hunting,” Ferguson asked, jumping on Grant’s pronoun usage.

  “I can’t confirm that, no. But statistically—”

  “I know—men are more likely to go on killing sprees than women.”

  Phyllis, the waitress who had served him and Frankel, picked that time to take their order. She smiled at Grant. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Nice to see you as well. I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “It’s the accent. Plus, the detective usually eats here by himself.”

  “I thought you worked evenings.”

  “I basically come with the place, darling. What’ll you boys have?”

  Ferguson ordered scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, rye toast, and coffee. Grant said he would have the exact same except he’d prefer English breakfast tea.

  “It’ll be up in a jiffy,” Phyllis told them and moved back to the kitchen.

  “You and Detective Frankel seem to have hit it off,” said Ferguson, picking up on Phyllis’s mention of the NYPD man. “Two peas in a policeman’s pod.”

  “We have a similar goal in mind.”

  “And the ability to cover for each other as well.”

  Grant felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Meaning what, precisely?”

  “This nonsense with your daughter. You don’t really expect me to swallow the notion that she came up with the Commandments angle herself. Why don’t you admit that you fed it to her?”

  “Rather than you admit she beat you to the punch?”

  “Because she’s your daughter and had inside knowledge,” argued Ferguson.

  “What can I say? Something rubbed off being raised in a copper’s home.”

  Ferguson muttered to himself. Grant could see his mind switching tracks.

  “Let’s talk about Leeds. How do you go from interviewing every single resident of an apartment building to suddenly focusing on a parolee just released to a halfway house in Far Rockaway who just happened to murder his parents?”

  Grant must have reacted because a smile curled on Ferguson’s face.

  “You’re not going to slip everything by me, Grant. Hard as you might try.”

  “You know how it works, Monte. One thing leads to another. And I’m under no obligation to detail that process with you.”

  Phyllis arrived with pots of tea and coffee. Grant thought her timing perfect, giving him a chance to steer the conversation in a direction that would get the Mail journalist off his back. By the time Phyllis went to check on their breakfast, an idea formulated in his head that might prove advantageous to both him and Ferguson.

  “Shall we talk about a potential victim number six?” asked Grant.

  The reporter practically choked on his coffee.

  “Am I sitting across from Austin Grant? Commander at Scotland Yard?”

  “For twelve more days. But who’s counting?”

  “What gives?”

  “You know as well as I do what comes next. ‘Thou shalt not kill .’” Grant took a sip of tea. “Sort of narrows the field, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re looking for a killer. Someone who’s out and about—like Leeds was.”

  Grant nodded. “But he was murdered for a different reason.”

  “Because he killed his mother and father. That was made quite clear after your daughter dropped her little bomb.” Ferguson shook his head. “I’m sure all the agencies working on this are combing databases for killers as we speak.”

  “No question.”

  “So why are we even discussing it?”

  “Because those lists will only contain murders on the record. They won’t account for ones that we haven’t heard about.”

  “And you think someone like me would?” Ferguson wondered. “For once, you’re giving me more credit than I’m due.”

  “You hear things in your line of work, Monte. Rumors, innuendos. You can make the sort of inquiries men like myself and Detective Frankel can’t because we are burdened by badges, rules, and such.” Grant mustered up his most casual shrug, then finished the train of thought. “At this point it can’t hurt working every possible angle.”

  “Except the one you’re not telling me about,” countered Ferguson. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Besides getting a serial killer off the streets of New York?”

  “That’s your job, Commander. Not mine.”

  “There might come a day when I will need to remind you that you said that.”

  Grant was well aware of the high-wire act he was walking. Even though he and Frankel suspected the killer had already dispatched a sixth victim, they still had no idea who it was. If Ferguson figured that out before them, it benefited everyone.

  “In the meantime, go do what we can’t,” continued Grant. “Come back with a name or two. If it leads to something, I’ll make sure you get full credit and the exclusive you’re looking for. You’ll have certainly earned it.”

  Ferguson leaned back and considered Grant’s offer as Phyllis placed their food in front of them. She refilled their cups, told them to let her know if they needed anything else, and moved off.

  “You know I’m a man of my word, Monte. I let you run with that story—and believe me I still haven’t stopped hearing how I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “I’ve never accused you of not telling the truth. Bending it, perhaps.” Ferguson twisted a fork full of scrambled eggs in the air for emphasis.

  Grant just waited. Ferguson finally took a bite, then lowered the fork.

  “Okay, let’s give your way a try.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  And he truly did. He believed he’d gotten the reporter to take a sidestep that might actually pay him and Frankel dividends as well.

  “I
do have one more question, though,” Ferguson said.

  “Just one?”

  “Why is he killing people according to the Ten Commandments?”

  Grant had been asking himself the very same question since he had sat in his brother’s study a week ago. And for the life of him, Grant had to admit that he didn’t have a bloody clue.

  Neither did Rachel or Frankel when they sat and talked in the basement of the precinct.

  Grant had arrived to find Rachel knee-deep in paperwork in an office Frankel had set up for her. Not only did it afford her a modicum of privacy, it allowed Grant and Frankel the opportunity to drop down and see Rachel at any time while keeping her out of Lieutenant Harris’s direct sight. Frankel had informed his superior what they were having her work on and, though Harris wasn’t exactly jumping up and down about it, the man was in such desperate straits he seemed willing to grasp at any available straw.

  Rachel had gotten in touch with Hawley bright and early and, as promised, his trusty sergeant had sent along his first pass at Grant’s old cases. She handed her father and Frankel each a printout that exceeded fifty pages.

  “You were right,” said Frankel. “There have to be at least a thousand here.”

  “Try thirteen-hundred and seventy-four.” Rachel turned toward Grant. “A lot died while serving their sentences or have since they got out.”

  “Have you been able to break it down further?” asked Grant.

  “We’re working on it.”

  She flipped pages in a notebook where she’d established different categories.

  “It looks like half have finished their prison time, so we’re talking in the six to seven hundred range that are no longer behind bars.”

  Frankel was shocked. “That many? High turnover rate you folks have there.”

  “Different class of criminal,” explained Grant. “No guns equals less violent crimes. We don’t have as many men and women doing life sentences as a result.”

  Rachel flipped to another page. “Even with those who have passed away, we still have close to three hundred to check up on.”

  “Any idea how many still reside in England?” Grant asked.